Page 2 of Sing Sweet Nightingale

Once upon a time, I wanted to be a star, to write my music and sing it for the world to hear. But that was when it was mine when I was me, not this thing they’ve made me into. Singing is still in my blood—I know it is, I can feel it—but performing has become my nightmare fuel.

“Don’t worry about him, Lottie. He won’t be getting near you again.” Luna switches back to calling me by the nickname my father gave me when I was a toddler. The one that is more me than Alexandria. It’s what I would prefer to have gone by if I were singing and recording what I wanted and not what the label wanted. Now, I’m secretly happy my mother forced me to go by Alexandria because if I produce any of my real music in thefuture, I’m going by Lottie, and I don’t want it to be connected to Alexandria in the least.

This career and life may have given me anything and everything materialistic I could ever want, but they lack the substantially important stuff, like happiness and love.

“Thanks, Luna. Although I don’t think that’s an issue. He didn’t seem to want to be anywhere near me anymore. I think he’s more than done with me and I him.”

“His loss.”

“Agreed.”

A semblance of a smirk pulls at one side of her lips. Her version of a smile.

“What would I do without you, Luna?”

“Probably murder your mother in her sleep.”

I turn an open-mouthed gawk at her. “Was that a joke?”

“Oh, please. You know I’m hilarious.”

She kind of is in her own dark and cynical way. At least she always knows how to make me laugh. What does that say about me then?

I turn to look out my now cracked windows. Outside, it’s dark; small lights line the walkways of the expansive yard and pool area below. My rooms are on the second floor of the mansion I call home. It’s never felt like a real home, more like a prison. Since I can’t ever leave without permission or guards. With gilded walls and marbled floors. High-end electronics and state-of-the-art appliances. Filled with art by people I’ve never heard of but are apparently worth twenty-five thousand dollars for a few splashes of paint on a canvas.

There are rooms for just about everything you could ever want in this house, and I hate it all. That is why I stay in my quarters, mostly allowing my mother and team free range overthe rest of the mansion. Only venturing out to the kitchen or gym, sometimes the pool, when I have a free afternoon.

But if I want to go anywhere? Tsh. Forget about it.

“You know I never wanted any of this.” My statement surprises Luna. I can tell because her brow furrows.

Sensing an impending breakdown, she rounds the oversized couch and sits on the armchair nearby. None of my other security would dare be so casual around me, but Luna’s different. She’s like an overprotective big sister and the concerned mother I never had.

“I just wanted to write music and play my guitar. Sing my songs. I suppose it’s my own fault for allowing her to take control of everything. I’m sick of playing the music they want me to. Wearing the clothes they pick out, styling my hair the way they want.”

I finger the long blonde locks that they told me I couldn’t cut because it’s “part of my look.” If I want to go out for any reason, it always has to be approved by my mother. Then the glam squad has to pick an appropriate outfit, and hair and makeup must be perfectly paired. All those photos you see of celebrities in sweats with messy hair and big sunglasses? You’ll never find one of me like that. My mother won’t allow it. My photos are always immaculate.

I fucking hate it.

Since when did everything have to be so perfect? Sometimes I just want to spill coffee down the front of my white silk blouse just to fuck up their plans for my scheduled paparazzi shots.

“All I want is to go grocery shopping by myself, wearing jeans and a slouchy t-shirt with my hair in a messy top knot. But nooooo. The glam squad won’t allow it without three hours of prep time and an outfit that costs more than a car. And I could never go alone. That’s preposterous,” I mock.

I can’t do anything like a normal person anymore. Sometimes, I just want to go for a walk or out for a coffee without an entire security team or swarms of fans mobbing me. Famewas something I had never really considered in my dreams of being a musician. I only thought of the music, not the effect it would have on my private life.

“Do you know I can’t even pick out my own underwear? Once, I tried to buy a pair of cotton bikinis; you know, for those days when you just want to lounge around and be comfortable in pajamas and eat ice cream, and she wouldn’t let me. I love a thong as much as the next girl, but sometimes you just want to be comfortable in a pair of granny panties. Why can’t I just have a pair of granny panties like a normal twenty-five-year-old girl?”

I’m whining and I really don’t care. I’ve come to the end of my rope. My limits have been reached and I’m ready to jump off that cliff.

“I’m done, Luna. I can’t do this anymore,” I say softly.

She’s quiet for a minute, watching me slowly sink and melt into the couch, hoping it will swallow me whole and that I can disappear without a trace.

Wait.

I sit straight up in my seat, a new wave of energy revitalizing my worn-out nerves.

“That’s it.”

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